


Emerald, Gold, and Scarlet Red

by serotoninDeficient



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Could've been canon if Rowling wasn't a coward, Drarry, I can't help but torture them like this, I maaaaaay be projecting just a tiny bit, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It's got a hopeful note at least, It's not completely off-track but it's got some divergence in there, Look they've got magic y'all don't think I'm gonna play with that?, M/M, So much angst, canon adjacent, only a little, or a lot, semi-happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 04:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serotoninDeficient/pseuds/serotoninDeficient
Summary: He should have run when he had the chance.Draco knew that nothing good could be happening when the Dark Lord and his most trusted Death Eaters took up residence in their house, but it never occurred to him that he’d be called for by Lord Voldemort himself. He was only a background figure - the son of a minion, fallen from grace.He thinks that’s probably why he was chosenOr, the angsty/cutesy Drarry that Rowling didn't want to give us, because canon is a box of scraps and I can do with it as I please.Please be advised: This story does contain mentions of self-harm, as well as the Sectumsempra scene.





	Emerald, Gold, and Scarlet Red

**Author's Note:**

> As some other author whose username I don't know in order to credit once said, Marie Kondo said to get rid of it if it doesn't spark joy, and that's what I'm doing with canon, kids. This is literally logged in my Google drive as "vent fic", so it's more or less self-indulgent, but I'm pretty proud of it, so I'm sharing. Enjoy!

He should have run when he had the chance.

Draco knew that nothing good could be happening when the Dark Lord and his most trusted Death Eaters took up residence in their house, but it never occurred to him that he’d be called for by Lord Voldemort himself. He was only a background figure - the son of a minion, fallen from grace.

He thinks that’s probably why he was chosen.

They branded him, sank their twisted Mark into his skin and held him down while he screamed. He couldn’t look at his wrist for weeks after, and he hasn’t worn short sleeves since.

But of course, that’s also because if anyone saw how he’s coping with it, he’s not sure what he would do.

* * *

They’re in Potions class when it happens.

It’s _ always _ Potions.

He knows what’s wrong the moment it happens. Their stupid Draught of Living Death assignment has him frantic with the idea of an easy success in this fucking mission, and he pushes his sleeve back just a little too far while he works, and Potter sees, he can tell the moment he hears the sharp intake of breath. He jerks his sleeve down and glares at the dark-haired boy, surprised to find him glaring right back, and he’s so distracted that his Sopophorous bean gets all the way across the table before he notices it’s gone.

The rest of the period is spent worrying over Potter - what he thinks, what he’s going to do about it, when he’ll use this to get revenge. Because of course he’s going to use this for revenge. It’s not like he hasn’t been torturing Potter for five years straight. It’s not like Draco wouldn’t jump at a chance like this if the situation were reversed. It’s not like he shouldn’t have expected this.

But, Merlin. Not now. He’s already got enough shit going on, what with the mission and his parents and he really, _ really _ doesn’t need this.

He watches bitterly as Potter takes his stupid luck potion and just prays he might forget about the whole thing.

* * *

Of course, his luck isn’t that good. (Ha.)

Potter stops him in the hallway a few days later, and Draco can tell what it’s going to be about even before he spits, “You’re sick, you know that?”

“How nice of you to notice,” Draco deadpans.

The other boy stumbles upon this, but quickly regains his bearings and keeps going.

“I knew you were evil, but _ this? _ How fucked up do you have to be to _ get off _ on _ pain? _”

Well, that’s unexpected.

“What the bleeding hell are you talking about, Potter?” Draco asks, smiling wryly to himself at the joke.

“Are you-” Potter starts, cutting himself off with a huff. “Nevermind. I’m _ talking _ about those marks on your arm. Seriously, that’s sick, even for you.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Once again, Potter, you have put your keen and penetrating mind to the task and, as usual, come to the wrong conclusion. Now, if we’re done here, I have to get to Transfiguration.” And, shoving past Potter, he storms down the hallway, ignoring the piercing green eyes locked onto his back.

* * *

Recently, Harry can’t stop finding Malfoy utterly perplexing.

Malfoy looked legitimately confused when Harry confronted him about those cuts on his arm, and the only thing he could think of them meaning. So he guesses he could have gotten it wrong, but if it’s not some weird fetish, then what _ is _ it?

Finally, he breaks down and asks Hermione what she thinks.

“I can check in the library if you like,” she tells him, “but I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

But somehow, apparently, neither has any author among the thousands whose dusty, long-winded stories Hermione loves so much.

“I asked Madam Pomfrey about it, and Professor McGonagall, but neither of them had any answers, and all they said was that they’d look into it! It just doesn’t make _ sense! _ Why can’t I find anything?”

“Well, maybe it’s something we’re not allowed to study,” Harry suggests. “Did you check the Restricted Section?”

“Yes, and _ nothing _ . How can the Hogwarts library _ not _ have information on something so crucial?”

“Could be some weird Muggle thing,” Ron points out.

“Don’t be thick,” Harry counters. “Malfoy, copying _ Muggles? _ That’d be like a nice blast-ended skrewt.” He shudders at the memory of those horrible creatures they studied in fourth year - as much as he loves Hagrid, his class was a nightmare.

“Or a stupid Hermione,” Ron agrees.

Hermione blushes at the compliment. “Still, it’s worth a try. I’ll do some research in my town library over Christmas holiday.”

They agree to drop the subject for the time being, but Harry can’t resist the urge to follow Malfoy whenever he gets the chance.

* * *

For once, Hermione finds herself completely baffled when there is absolutely _ nothing _ about self-inflicted injuries anywhere in the library. She even works up the courage to ask the librarian, who stares at her quizzically but points her to one of the new computers down the hall regardless.

A few searches are all it takes for her to find a medical journal detailing new studies into why people who engage in self-harm, or inflict injuries, such as cuts, on themselves, do what they do.

And the more she reads, the more horrified Hermione becomes.

Because she’s been noticing these symptoms in Draco for _ months _, even before Harry told her about the cuts.

Changes in sleeping patterns -- when he fell asleep in History of Magic, and again in Charms, but Harry started noticing him wandering around the castle at night. 

Difficulty concentrating -- when he stopped raising his hand in Potions class and then stopped taking notes altogether.

Withdrawal from social interaction -- when they started seeing him without Crabbe and Goyle more and more.

Loss of interest -- when he skipped a Quidditch game for no discernible reason.

Feelings of worthlessness -- when he got a D on a Transfiguration assignment and his face crumpled, just for an instant, as McGonagall said that she expected better from him.

It doesn’t really surprise her when the journal says that it’s common for people with these symptoms to engage in self-harm to cope with the way they feel, and that it is not necessarily a suicide attempt, but a plea for help.

So, of course, they have to help him.

But how?

* * *

Going home for the winter holidays was a terrible idea. Draco doesn’t even know why he tried.

All his mother wants to do is talk about the mission -- what he’s planning to do, how he’s getting on with it, whether Snape has helped him at all. He takes to hiding in his room to avoid her and everyone else in the manor, spending long hours brooding on his bed. (Not _ in _ his bed -- he doesn’t have the luxury of staying in pajamas all day, Death Eater horde or no.)

He doesn’t sleep much. The house has felt threatening since the Dark Lord took up residence. Instead, he thinks, and tries to ignore the siren song of his wand. One good spell -- the right curse -- and he would be free. He wouldn’t have to worry about any of this anymore.

He tries to decide if becoming an inferius would be worth it.

* * *

She tells them everything a week later, when they gather at the Burrow for the last few days of the winter holiday.

Ron, to his credit, looks like he’s about to vomit. “Bloody hell,” is all he can think to say.

Harry, on the other hand, can’t wrap his head around it. He has to ask Hermione to explain again at least three times, and he _ still _ can’t shake the feeling that this has to be part of Malfoy’s plan somehow. After all, Harry has known Malfoy to be many things -- nearly all of them unpleasant -- but he is _ not _ vulnerable.

“How can we know that’s what he’s really doing, though?” he asked. “I mean, who’s to say that he’s not just pretending to have this illness so he can trap us somehow?”

Hermione gapes, aghast. Even Ron looks skeptical.

“Mate, that’s sick, even for Malfoy.”

Harry doesn’t bring it up again.

* * *

But that doesn’t mean he drops it.

When they return to school, Harry tails Draco with renewed vigor, even enlisting Dobby and Kreacher to keep tabs on him when Harry has to be elsewhere. But even so, he doesn’t seem to get anywhere.

Hermione, on the other hand, pursues her own idea. She talks to Draco, checking in on him when he’s alone, but he brushes her off every time. For once, though, he doesn’t bother to insult her blood status, and that gives her hope.

Nothing particularly exciting happens until Harry spots Draco, on the Marauder’s Map, in the empty boys’ bathroom on the sixth floor, with Moaning Myrtle.

Harry is on his way to dinner, alone, when he spots them. He rushes through the castle, vaulting over the trick step on the north staircase and sprinting through corridors until he draws close to the one that would lead him to Draco. He tiptoes down the hall, hardly daring to breathe as he edges towards the door.

“Don’t,” Myrtle croons. “Don’t… Tell me what’s wrong… I can help you…”

“No one can help me,” Draco chokes. “I can’t do it… I can’t… It won’t work… And unless I do it soon… he says he’ll kill me…”

Slowly, carefully, Harry pokes his head around the door. Draco stands with his back to Harry, leaning against the sink. His shoulders are shaking, and with a gasp Harry realizes he’s crying -- actually _ crying, _ trying desperately to breathe in a way that Harry has never seen.

Draco hears the gasp and jerks around, drawing his wand. He throws a hex at Harry, who dodges and hurls _ Levicorpus! _ at Draco, who blocks it. Myrtle is screaming at them to stop, and Harry sees Draco raise his wand, hears him shout, _ “Cruc-” _

_ “SECTUMSEMPRA!” _Harry bellows, swinging his wand wildly.

Draco falls, a choked sob escaping his lips.

“MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM!” Myrtle screams, and Harry has half a mind to join her.

He falls to his knees beside Draco, who lies gasping on the stone floor in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood, looking as though he’s been slashed with a sword. Frantically, Harry unbuttons Draco’s shirt, now in tatters, and falls back, stunned.

For the wounds Harry made aren’t the only marks on Draco’s chest.

A thousand scars litter his skin, some forming words, others deep gashes, healed but not faded. _ Freak, psycho, monster, killer, coward, weak, fuckup, stupid, weirdo… _ Harry stares in horror until Snape bursts into the room and shoves him out of the way. It’s only then, watching Snape heal Draco’s wounds -- the wounds that Harry gave him -- that he realizes Hermione was right.

He’s such an idiot.

* * *

Which is exactly how Draco feels, sitting in Snape’s office nearly thirty minutes later.

“Do you have _ any _ idea what’s at stake? How much you’re risking?” he hisses. “Do you have even the _ foggiest _inkling of what will happen to us all if you fail?”

Draco is silent.

“Well? _ Do _you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then tell me, _ what in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing? _ Draco, if you do not succeed, your family will be killed. You need to get over whatever _ this _\--” he gestures to Draco’s chest -- “is, and you need to do it soon. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape makes a dismissive gesture, and Draco forces himself to walk calmly out of the room, out of the dungeons, up the stairs, and to the Room of Requirement. He really should go to the hospital wing, or even to his dorms, which are closer, but the urge is so strong it hurts, he’s tempted to break down right there in the corridor.

It’s a breath of fresh air to step through the door, where no one can get to him, and he sinks to the ground the moment it’s shut behind him. He doesn’t cry now -- all of his tears have disappeared. Instead, he rolls up his sleeve and takes out his wand. Everything is numb.

The spell comes out in a whisper, his alternative to carrying a razor blade like a Muggle. (No one would dare confiscate his wand, even if they happened to find out.) (That’s what he likes to tell himself, anyway.) (No one is really scared of him since his father got his arse kicked by a bunch of fifteen-year olds at the end of last term.) (His mother is probably the only reason he’s not dead yet.)

(Scratch that. She’s _ definitely _ the only reason he’s not dead yet.)

* * *

Harry confronts Draco the next day.

He waits in the Entrance Hall at the start of lunch, hoping against hope that Draco will show up today. He’s only shown up to meals twice this week -- which of course means that Harry has only shown up to meals twice this week. He’s been sneaking down to the kitchens at night to keep from keeling over. But he overheard Parkinson complaining to Draco that morning about his absence from the Slytherin table, so he waits.

Sure enough, it’s only a few minutes before he spots a shock of platinum blonde hair in the tide of students. Harry ducks into the fray, hunting for Draco -- this may be his only chance to ask him if what Hermione said was true. He_ needs _ to know; the dark circles under his eyes are a testament to just how much he’s been thinking about it.

He finally catches Draco just outside the Great Hall and pulls him out of the tide of kids streaming in for lunch. Draco resists, but he’s not as strong as he used to be and Harry has been training hard for the match against Slytherin, so it’s hardly a fair fight.

They duck into the broom closet that Harry and Hermione hid in while time-traveling in their third year, and Harry pulls the door shut behind them. It’s a lot more cramped than it was back then, but Draco still manages to stand as far away as physically possible.

Draco jerks his arm out of Harry’s grip. “What.”

“I, er... I wanted to apologize,” Harry says, shrugging.

“For what, assaulting me?”

“What? No. When did I- I mean, _ yes, _ I’m really sorry about that. I had no idea what that spell would even _ do _, and you started to cast an Unforgivable Curse, and…” Draco pales at the mention of what he almost did, and Harry blunders on. “Oh, bollocks. What I really wanted to say was that… I’m sorry. For assuming,” he finishes lamely.

“...Assuming?”

“Yeah. About…” Harry gestures vaguely to Draco’s arm. “You know.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Really. Tell me, did you realize that you were acting like an absolute moron on your own, or did Granger have to tell you?”

“Really, Malfoy? I’m trying to be sincere and apologize to you, and you just can’t stand not to be rude, can you?” Harry sighs heavily. “I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Hermione has a theory, and if she’s right, then… I want to help.”

Draco blinks, and for a moment, he almost seems like he could be the way Hermione said he was. But almost immediately, his face closes off, and he’s back to cold indifference. “Yeah, well, you can’t help me. I don’t _ need _ help.”

He moves to storm out, but Harry catches his wrist. Draco glares at him. “Let. Go.”

“Draco,” Harry begs. “Please.”

A thousand emotions flit across Draco’s face. Too late, Harry realizes he forgot to call him Malfoy.

“Not here,” Draco hisses, and leaves the closet without another word.

* * *

Harry tails Draco through the castle, trying not to make it obvious to any stragglers that that’s what he’s doing. Rumors spread like the plague at Hogwarts -- the last thing he needs is anyone wondering if he’s going out with Draco now.

(A part of him wonders if that would be such a bad thing. He shoves it away.)

Harry rounds a corner and catches sight of a flash of blonde hair and black robes whipping through a heavy oak door, across the hall from a tapestry of trolls learning ballet. Memories come flooding back to him, of hours spent pacing in front of this very tapestry... Of course! He jolts forward, the handle just slipping through his fingers as it closes.

And yet, miraculously, it doesn’t disappear. There is no resistance when he tries to pull it open -- in fact, it feels far lighter than an oak door should. He stumbles backwards, the extra force propelling him into the opposite wall. The door swings closed again.

Harry dusts himself off and places a hand on the door handle. Carefully, he pulls it open and steps inside.

Draco is standing next to a luxurious green couch, in a warm, comfortable room paneled with dark planks of wood and decorated with large tapestries in soothing patterns. Against one wall is a sink, the shelves above it heavily stocked with medical supplies. Tall bookshelves filled with fairy tales occupy a full wall to Harry’s left. He’s so busy taking it all in, he jumps when the door slams behind him. Faintly, he catches a wisp of a smile on Draco’s face before it vanishes.

He crosses over to the other boy, approaching him the same way one would approach a wounded animal. “Can…” he starts, uncertain. “Can I see them?”

Draco tenses and stares at the opposite wall, but he only jerks a little bit when Harry reaches for his wrist. Gingerly, Harry pulls back first the sleeve of his robe, then his sweater, and finally his shirt. When he finally pulls the last layer away from Draco’s pale, cool skin, he fails to suppress a gasp at the sight.

The first thing he notices is the Dark Mark, stark against Draco’s skin, writhing on his arm in a twisted dance. Second, he notes the collection of faded but clearly deep scars encircling the Mark, leaving a good half inch of unmarred skin as a border between the two. The last thing that catches Harry’s eye as he moves Draco’s sleeve further back is a cluster of gouged red lines at the crook of his elbow, just beginning to scab over.

“I meant to heal them,” Draco bursts out suddenly. “Or bandage them, or something. I just…”

“It’s okay,” Harry interrupts, pulling out his wand. “_ Episkey. _”

As they watch, the scabs on Draco’s arm knit themselves closed until they look no different from the fading scars that decorate the rest of his arm. Gently, Harry rolls Draco’s sleeves back down and lets his arm drop. “Take off your shirt,” he says abruptly.

“W-what?” Draco stutters, his face turning a deep shade of pink.

“Oh, come on, I know that’s not all of them. I saw plenty when…” It’s Harry’s turn to trail off, and they stand silently for a moment, both remembering that horrible day in the bathroom. “Do… do you really think all those things? About yourself?”

“No, Potter, I did it for a laugh,” Draco deadpans, and Harry flinches, both at the comment and the use of his last name.

“Sorry,” Draco whispers. He’s silent as he slips out of his robe and lets it fall to the floor, his sweater following suit. He takes his time unbuttoning his shirt, prolonging the inevitable as long as he can, but eventually there are no more buttons, and he has to let the fabric drop from his shoulders.

He’s got the sort of appearance that shows he’s lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time, Harry notes, his stomach turning as he takes in the sight, his ribs poking out against his skin, the scars scattered over his abdomen much deeper than those on his wrist. But even those pale in comparison to the two thick, ropy gouges stretching haphazardly across his chest. Harry doesn’t have to ask how they got there; the reality of the damage almost makes him gag.

Before he can think about it, he takes a step forward and wraps his arms around Draco, enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. He feels Draco tense, then, slowly, he begins to relax into Harry’s embrace, his head falling against the other’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finds himself whispering, rubbing soothing circles into Draco’s back as he begins to shudder and gasp. “I’m so, so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted to hurt you. Not really.”

At those words, Draco melts, and suddenly Harry finds himself supporting the both of them. Carefully, he sinks to the floor, still holding Draco in his arms -- who, Harry realizes with a start, is _ sobbing _, and into Harry’s shoulder, no less. He continues to rub the other boy’s back, murmuring comforting phrases.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Draco’s sobs soften, then quiet entirely, and his shoulders still. But he doesn’t pull away from Harry, so Harry doesn’t pull away from him.

And as they continue to sit there, Draco finds the words pouring from his mouth like a waterfall, even as he isn’t able to lift his head from Harry’s shoulder to look him in the eye. He tells Harry everything, from the day they branded him, to his time spent home over winter holiday, to Hermione’s continued attempts to talk to him. When he gets to the duel in the bathroom, Harry tenses, placing a comforting hand on Draco’s own in a silent apology.

“After he healed me,” Draco says, “Professor Snape brought me into his office and asked me if I knew how much was at stake. He didn’t offer to help me or anything. Instead, he just- he told me to get over it, and soon.” There’s a note of bitterness in his voice that he can’t contain, and Harry laces their fingers together, squeezing his hand tightly even as he holds Draco closer to his chest. It’s… odd, he thinks, to be comforting his enemy so. But he can’t say that he doesn’t _ like _ the feeling of having him so close.

He just wishes it were in more favorable circumstances.

Finally, Draco pulls away from Harry, wiping the tears from his face with his free hand. It’s at that moment that he seems to realize they were holding hands at all, and he stares down at their intertwined fingers, blushing furiously.

“Is this… okay?” Harry asks, tentatively.

Wordlessly, Draco nods, and despite himself, he can feel a gentle smile forcing its way onto his face.

“I guess we should go get lunch now,” Harry says, hating to break the moment but knowing Draco needs to eat. He clearly hasn’t been doing much of that as of late.

Draco shakes his head and gets to his feet, walking towards one of the cupboards in the corner of the room. As he walks away, Harry can’t seem to stop himself from staring at the way Draco’s muscles move under his pale skin.

With a flair for the dramatic, Draco whips open a cabinet door and stands in a “ta-da” sort of fashion, gesturing at the shelves filled with piping hot meals, ready to be eaten. Harry can’t tell if they were conjured by the room, or if the house-elves have some way of sending them here, but it doesn’t really matter. “Who needs the Great Hall?”

Harry chuckles. “I suppose there’s no harm in staying up here for a little while longer.”

And as it turned out, ‘a little while’ meant all night.

**Author's Note:**

> I lowkey worked on this on and off for literal years, and it definitely needs work in places, but I think I'd rather leave it as it is, even though it's not perfect. Please leave feedback if you have the time and/or enough fucks to give to do so.


End file.
